


The Eye of the Storm.

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:24:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drake comforts Doughtie after the Rathlin Island massacre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Storm.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "The Storm" by Big Country.

            Outside the ship, the storm raged.  Thomas Doughtie sat on the side of the bed, ash white, keening to himself, "I didn't know, I swear I didn't know," over and over.  
            "Nor did I," said Drake, moistening a washcloth in the basin on his cabinet.  Doughtie made no protest when Drake sat next to him, took his hands between his own, began to wipe off the caked blood.  "A dirty business.  Would that I were never involved with it."  But Drake was the kind of man who would sleep well tonight, forget about it tomorrow.  What Doughtie had seen was burned forever into his eyes.

            For Drake, the past week had mostly been a dull one.  His men dropped the troops, helped haul the canon onto RathlinIsland.  Then they waited.  He played endless games of cards and drank endless tankards of ale with the other captains, Potter and Stydye.  Stydye missed no opportunity to flaunt his greater authority as commander of three ships compared to Drake and Potter's one.  It was the sort of thing Drake would not forget.  
            He missed the company of Doughtie.  Well, they had come to Ireland to fight.  Drake supposed that it had to happen sometimes.  But he had gotten used to the easy life at Essex's estate, the few minor, bloody skirmishes punctuating long stretches of leisure and privilege.  Privilege was something he liked about Ireland.  Back at home, it was a constant struggle to assert himself as a better sort of man.  In Ireland, it was accepted.  He was an English captain: that made him next to God in the eyes of the law, at least compared to the Irish.  
            For most of that week, they watched from the deck of the _Falcon_ as the English lay siege to the fortress.  Rathlin had been considered to be unassailable, which was why the last of the Scots mercenaries had holed up there.  But sooner or later, they would run out of supplies.  That was the real point of Drake's engagement.  Every now and again, they picked up a few guests – men who were trying to flee from the island, either to save their own lives or to get reinforcements.  Drake entertained them in the fashion he used to entertain Spanish prisoners.  
            Every night, the wounded and the dead were carried back to the fleet.  Drake found himself nervously scanning the faces, dreading to see Doughtie's among them.  Dreading this more than he had imagined.  He had lost friends before – what was so different about this?  He had become attached to Doughtie in a way he hadn't anticipated was possible.  He ached for Doughtie's laugh, his voice, the warmth of him in the cramped bed in the cabin they shared.

            On the morning of the 26th of July, 1575, the sky was clear.  By mid-afternoon, the wind had picked up.  It bothered Drake enormously; it was coming from the wrong direction.  He was a mariner, he relied on weather.  This was wrong – unnatural.          
            Flashes of lightning split the sky.  Rain came suddenly, torrents and torrents of rain.  Then, although the sheets of water made it near impossible to see, his sharp eyes picked up the signal they'd been waiting for.  "Put in to shore," he commanded.  "The troops are returning."  
            Within a matter of minutes, the sails were whipping so hard and so erratically that Drake thought they might be torn from the mast.  The sailors fought hard to keep the ships from blowing off course and out of the mouth of the harbor.  Finally, the fleet struggled into position to meet the pinnaces.  
            The soldiers were singing, drunk with victory.  Finally triumphant, Captain Norris was puffed up with self-importance.  "'Tis all but done – all but," he said, "'twere it not for the rain, we would have rooted out those that fled.  Tomorrow, we shall finish this business and take what spoils there are to be had."  
            "Aye!  That rain – did you see it?" barked one of the men.  "There were rivulets running red into the sea."  
            "Spares us the trouble of mopping up the filthy Scottish blood," cracked another.  The company laughed.  
            Drake scanned the group for Doughtie.  He was sitting alone, huddled in the back of the pinnace.  For once, Doughtie did not rush to greet his friend with a boisterous embrace.  He looked ill, and Drake wondered for a second if the rough water on the trip back to the fleet had made him seasick.  The eyes that met Drake's were lost, ravaged.  
            Drake had seen men in such condition after battle before.  It was usually after their first taste of war, when their minds had gone silent, all thought drowned out by the roar of the canon.  But Doughtie was a seasoned soldier, not likely to be shell-shocked.  Drake pulled him to his feet, helped him back onto the _Falcon_.  
            "What happened, Thomas?" Drake asked, his low, authoritative voice still audible amidst the din and merriment.  
            "We killed all of them."  
            ""Tis good - enemies who shall not raise their hands 'gainst us another day, then."  
            "Nay, Francis.  Not the soldiers.  All of them.  All."  He fell silent.  His face was so drawn, so haunted that Drake wondered how much of Doughtie had died with them.  
            Drake guided him back to their cabin.  Doughtie sat on the side of the bed, for a long time remaining absolutely still, moving not even to clean the blood spattered on his hands, his face.  Finally, Drake began to do it.  
            At his friend's touch, Doughtie seemed to come somewhat back to life.  "They did surrender to us, trusting to our mercy.  And as they came out of their safety, the men did betray their trust, running fast to butchery – and Norris did naught.  He laughed."  
            Doughtie's tone was flat, distant as he continued.  "I tried to stop them, I swear it.  My voice would not carry.  All around me was chaos.  I screamed to Norris that Milord Essex would not stand for this, and he did say, 'twas not so.  'Milord Essex commands it,' said he."  
            During the course of the tale, Doughtie became more and more agitated.  "Softly, Thomas," said Drake.  "There are times when the commands of authority are not to our liking.  But as soldiers and mariners, 'tis but our duty…"  
            "Truly, Francis, dost thou so believe?  I will not have it.  I swear this day to leave the service of Essex."  
            "Thomas.  Thou speakest folly."  
            Doughtie covered his face with his hands.  "I saw a woman, Francis.  She held the body of her dead son in her arms.  He was just a boy, Francis, a boy.  And she looked at me straight and said, 'You need not have done this.'  And then a soldier came and ran her through."  
            Drake was silent.  It was distasteful to him, sickening, but something as beyond his control as the storm itself.  
            But Doughtie was different.  Drake had never seen him look so alone, so vulnerable.  His slick attitude of social confidence had been stripped from him.  The arrogance, the brilliance, all of the things which both attracted Drake and yet kept him at a distance, were gone.  "I speak in earnest, Francis.  I will take me back to London.  I am sick of Eire, of our dishonor, our scheming, our ignominy."  
            "But I am engaged to Milord's service until September," said Drake.  "Wilt thou not wait until then?"  
            "Not another minute, Francis.  I am done."  
            Drake felt his heart constrict within him.  The thought of being without Thomas was unbearable.  More unbearable still was the thought that he had allowed this to happen – allowed someone to get this close to him.  "And wilt thou come with me to the Perwe?" Drake said lightly.  It was a dream they had often discussed, Doughtie always in a half-mocking tone, as if recounting a fairy tale.  
            But this time, Doughtie's expression, his words were of the utmost sincerity.  "Aye, Francis, I will.  I swear it.  I would rather be on the bottom of the world with the cannibals then here."  
            Drake laughed, but Thomas pulled away from him abruptly.  They sat apart for a moment, Thomas rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly, until it finally dawned upon Drake that he was weeping.  Weeping for Scottish women and children?  One might as well weep for a herd of cattle.  Sometimes, Thomas was a bit too fine in sensibility.  
            Drake touched his shoulder, and Doughtie looked back at him, face wet with tears.  _Like a woman_, Drake thought, and then was overtaken by a rash impulse, one long-considered and yet never dared – he kissed Doughtie.  
            Doughtie's reserve broke, as wild and sudden as the storm.  He ached for the touch of living flesh, for the reassurance that there was yet tenderness in the world – Drake had thrown him a lifeline and he grasped at it eagerly.  Soon they were naked, kissing and stroking, exploring every inch of each other's bodies.  Drake had wanted this for so long, and Doughtie was so beautiful, so willing in his extremity.  
            "Francis," he moaned, "God help me, for I have sinned."  
            "We shall make our peace later for this sweet sin," Drake chided.  
            "That is not…"  
            "Hush now."  And Drake kissed him again and again to keep him silent, trusting that whatever ailed Doughtie, this passion would suffice to heal.  
            When it was over, all was calm.  Drake held Doughtie in his strong arms, kissing his hair.  Thomas sighed, curled up next to him.  "'Tis over, my gentleman" Drake said soothingly, "and in the past.  Even the storm has stopped."  
            Doughtie nestled closer in Drake's arms.  "That is what I wanted to say to thee, Francis."  
            "Aye?"  
            "The storm.  When I was a child, I could…well, I swore to my confessor that I would leave off such deviltry.  But today, I could not stand…they would not listen.  I had to stop them.  And so I called the storm."  
            Doughtie sighed, dropping off into the sleep that follows the languor of love.  But Drake's eyes stayed open.  Indeed, he would never rest in Doughtie's presence again.

 


End file.
